


Whilst The Moon Shines Down

by Pixie



Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:03:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixie/pseuds/Pixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of what once was, whilst the Moon still hung above the Earth...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whilst The Moon Shines Down

_Tim squeezes his eyes shut tight, blocking out the stench of recycled air thick with blood and the sounds of battle echoing through the tunnel. He focuses on the blessed nothing in his vision, and dreams of before the war._

They'd been twelve when they met, though they'd lived on the same street for years before that. Tim was a quiet boy who spent most of his time in his room, tinkering with whatever new technology his parents' could afford, and it was a surprise to no-one that he was instantly accepted into the National Science Institute the day after the aptitude tests. What was a surprise to everyone was that the boy down the road – who had already won at least one award for his artwork – was accepted too.  
And so it was, age 12, the two boys met on the train to the Institute. They'd sat next to each other, getting on at the same stop, and said not a word beyond 'excuse me' the entire journey.

 

_The sounds of battle seem to pause for a second, and Tim feels his fists clench. Is this it? Have they finished off his regiment? Or is it a ceasefire, at long last? There is a scream, and Tim realises it was just the space needed to reload._

It was three years before they would speak again. Tim favoured the more theoretical classes, Bertie, the practical. And so it was a surprise to both of them when they were assigned to the same project – designing new weaponry capable of being used in non-Earth conditions. They'd been shy at first, each unsure of the other's knowledge and capability, but after Tim had expounded a new – and potentially dangerous – design, and Bertie had blown up half the lab with it, they found the conversation came as easily as breathing.  
The problems only began when Bertie's friends had found out who he was working with.

“Him? Bertie, you can't be serious!”  
“He's nice enough, Harry – what's the problem?”  
“He's just...well, look, you know how there's always that one kid who doesn't speak? And then you hear about him years later, doing something, y'know?” Harry gestured circles at his temple.  
“I don't see what...”  
“That's him, Bertie – have you seen the stuff in his notepad?”  
“No, he's not showed me yet.”  
“Well, listen, me and Dan nicked it out of his bag one lunchtime, and some of the stuff in there is crazy, like, properly crazy.”  
“Harry! That's private!”  
“Oh yeah, like you've cared before now...”

Bertie is immersed in a delicate cocktail of chemicals when Tim appears over his right shoulder. “Bloody hell, Tim, don't sneak up on me like that!” A small mushroom cloud bursts from the beaker he is holding, and he rolls his eyes. “I've put too much in now...”  
“Your friends don't like me, do they?”  
“What? I...uh...” He looks back at the beaker, now threatening to spill over the edges, and hurries towards the waste disposal.  
“You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to.”  
“What? No! Tim, they're just jealous that you get to work on this instead of them.”  
“I know what they think about me.”  
“What, that you're...”  
“They wrote things in my notebook, you know.”  
“Oh. You, uh, you know about that then?”  
“Yes. Do you...” Tim stops, all confidence fading, and looks awkwardly at the floor. “Do you think that too?” he finished, his voice small. Bertie starts to reply, and then bite his lip.  
“I...I did. When we met. But now – now I've seen you working, and...stars, Tim, you're brilliant. I mean, if what I've seen is any indication of even part of what's in that head of yours, then...” He shrugs. “But you're not crazy.” There is a short pause.  
“Okay,” Tim says softly.  
“Okay?”  
“Okay.”

 

_He's not sure how long he's been lying there any more, eyes closed, the familiar weight of Bertie's arm around his waist and the gun in his hand, but he can hear his heart pounding as though trying to break free from it's cage, and knows the battle will be upon him soon._

 

Tim's not sure when he first noticed it, but it's been the fifth day in a row that they've worked at the lab until curfew when he decides to point it out.  
“Bertie?”  
“Yes?”  
“They don't talk to you, do they?”  
“It doesn't matter.”  
  
The sixth day in a row, Tim brings it up again.  
“Why not?”  
“Why not what?”  
“Why doesn't it matter?”  
“Because it doesn't.”  
“Oh.”

The seventh day, Bertie brings it up in order to avoid watching Tim suffer through the awkwardness of phrasing the question.  
“Look, I don't mind. I mean, it's annoying, but if they don't want to talk to me because I like working with you, then they're not as good friends as I thought.”  
“You like working with me?” Bertie looks at him quizzically, and then laughs.  
“Please be joking!”  
“I...yeah, of course.”  
“Tim, how many times do I have to tell you? You're my friend. I like being around you. Even on the days when your theories burn my eyebrows clean off my face.”  
“And you don't think I'm going to go crazy?”  
“I don't think you're going to go crazy.”

_Once again, the pain threatens to overwhelm him, and he clenches his teeth. It hurts, he thinks, over and over again. It hurts. The gun in his hand is heavier than it's ever been, and he can feel himself shaking. What he wouldn't give to be hearing insults instead of bullets down corridors now._

Tim's hands are shaking and he can't look Bertie in the face. Someone's shouting, but the words are muffled and vague over the constant tone ringing through his head. His shoulders shake, but when he looks at them there are hands on them causing that, but the shake in his hands, that's all his. He can't think, can't think, and there are words but they make no sense, and ringing and ringing and blackness creeping round the sides of the floor and why is everything sideways and...

“What did he do?” someone shouts, and Tim tries to look around to see who they mean.  
“Easy, easy now...” says a voice, close to him, and he looks up into Bertie’s eyes.  
“Who?” he manages to croak out. “What did who do?”  
Bertie looks away for a second, and sighs. “It doesn’t matter right now. Do you think you can sit up?” Tim tries, and manages to maneuver himself against Bertie’s shoulder.  
“My...my head...”  
“I know, I know.” He pushes Tim’s hair out of his face, lifting it gently behind one ear and leans in to get a better look. “You’ll be alright. Might have to cut your hair though.”  
“What?”  
“There’s a pretty big gash there, I’m not sure they’ll be able to get at it. I know, I’ll miss it too.” He lets his hand rest there for a second, loose curls twined round his fingers. “Still,” he says, and pulls his hand back a little too quickly, “It’ll grow back.”  
  
Suddenly, there is shouting, and someone is looming over them, catching Tim’s arms and pulling him upwards. There’s a brief second where he feels like everything is about to go dark again, and he can see the ground getting closer, but then there’s an arm around his waist, grounding him. “What the hell are you playing at, Harry?”  
“Smithson wants to see him.”  
“Well then Smithson can come down here - he can’t bloody stand, never mind walk to his office.”  
Tim feels himself led away, finds a wall against his back, and sinks into something approaching a sitting position on the floor.  
“What does Smithson want?” Bertie looks agonised, and then sits down in front of him.  
“Did you do something to Harry?”  
“What?”  
“Did you...y’know, put something we made near him, or mess with one of his projects or something?”  
“No!” Tim tries to struggle to his feet, but Bertie presses a hand to his shoulder.  
“Tim, do you promise me you didn’t?”  
“I didn’t! Bertie, I’m not...I didn’t...I...”  
“Okay, I believe you. I do.” Realisation dawns in Tim’s eyes.  
“Harry...”  
“Yes.”

_Tim curls in towards Bertie, nails digging deep into his palm. The battle is quieting now - not the short, sharp quiet of a reload, but the slowly fading sounds of men dying and feet moving onwards. For a brief second, he allows himself to hope that perhaps, though it would have cost the regiment, he’ll escape unscathed. But then the feet pause, and when they start again, they’re coming back towards him._

 

It’s a few hours later before they eventually end up before Dr. Smithson, Tim’s hair newly shaven and head newly bandaged. “You know why you’re here, don’t you?” The boys nod, neither wanting to be the first to speak.  
“Harry left me this.”  
“My notebook!” Tim makes a grab for it, and Dr. Smithson pulls it back.  
“So it is yours then?” There’s a quiet curse from Bertie, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.  
“Something to say, have we?”  
“They stole that, sir.”  
“And you would know that how?”  
“Because they told me.”  
“Hm.” There’s a long, drawn out silence, and Bertie reaches over to place a hand over Tim’s before he speaks.  
“With all due respect sir, I believe Harry did it himself.” Tim looks up, shocked.  
“And you have evidence of it?”  
“No. But...”  
“So you are expecting me to take your word against four other boys, when it’s known that the design of the particular piece that exploded was one that you have also helped work on?”  
“Yes.”  
“And why should I do that?”  
“Because it’s true!” Tim whispers, and Bertie can feel the shaking in his hand. “I didn’t - I wouldn’t! They keep saying that I would, that I’d snap and do something but I’d never do something like that, I’d never...” Bertie slips his fingers between Tim’s, and feels him relax slightly. Dr Smithson merely raises an eyebrow, and turns back to Bertie.  
“Are you certain that this is the story you want to give?”  
“Yes. Sir.” To their surprise, Dr Smithson hands the notebook to Tim, and then sits down behind his desk, looking at them over steepled fingers.  
“I want to believe you, I really do, but two students - not including Tim - were injured in the blast.”  
“Can I ask who, sir?”  
“Maggie Daniels and James Mason.”  
“How are they?”  
“James is still unconscious in the hospital wing, and Maggie is too upset to talk.”  
“If I may, sir, I suggest talking to James when he comes to - he’s another one of the boys that w- Harry dislikes.”  
“You seem to know an awful lot about Harry.”  
“Yes...I...sir, could we continue this discussion at a later time? I would like to see Tim back to the hospital.”  
“Ah...yes. Of course. Come and see me whenever he’s feeling better.”

_Each second feels like years, and each footstep sounds like the movements of a Titan, heading inexorably towards Olympus. There are stops, moments where Tim can hardly breathe for the fear, but they are merely pauses to lift some soldier to his feet, to add one more set of footsteps to the tidal wave of sound threatening to drown him._

 

Tim never asks about the conversation Bertie had with Dr. Smithson, and Bertie never tells him. Both boys are aware of the information it must’ve contained, but neither of them wish to remember. It is enough for Tim that Bertie stood by him, and enough for Bertie that Smithson believed him. Tim recovers quickly, the gash on his head being long, but shallow, and both Maggie and James side with him in the inevitable aftermath. Harry’s parents press charges, as was to be expected, but the two boys are merely demoted rather than expelled and are required to gain their supervisors approval for any lab time. It’s an inconvenience, but one they are both more than willing to put up with given his tendency to sign anything put in front of him. It is a long time afterwards then when Tim finally brings up anything about that night.  
“You stood up for me.”  
“Well, yes.”  
“But you didn’t know it wasn’t me.”  
“Of course I...”  
“No, I mean, you had no proof.”  
“I didn’t need proof, Tim, I know you.”  
“Okay.”  
“Okay?” Tim is quiet, and Bertie leans in next to him. “Hey.” Tim stares resolutely down at his desk, so Bertie ducks in front of him until their noses are practically touching.  
“What?”  
“You could have gotten hurt!”  
“But I didn’t.”  
“But you could’ve - and all because of something I designed!”  
“That they made.”  
“But...”  
“Shut up, yeah?” Tim pulls back, blinking to get Bertie back into focus.  
“Did you just tell me to shut up?”  
“Yes, I did. You’re being an idiot. I’m fine, you’re fine, we didn’t get expelled, and Smithson knows to keep his eye on Harry’s lab time. It was the best possible outcome of a terrible situation - what more would you want?”  
“I suppose...”  
“You suppose? I also got to be your knight in shining armor, for what it’s worth.” At this, Tim can’t help but break into a smile.  
“Oh, did you now?”  
“Yes, I had to carry you and everything.” There’s a slight blush in Bertie’s cheeks, and both of them are suddenly very aware of how close they are - just inches apart, Bertie leaning in front so that he’s practically in the other boy’s lap. Bertie looks away first, and shuffles back into a position next to Tim. “Good job it was me saving you, and not the other way around, huh? I’m not sure you could lift me.”  
“Well, if I ever have to, I’m sure my brilliance will figure out a way.”  
“Now that’s more like it!” With a start, Bertie notices the clock on the wall, and pulls Tim to his feet, only noticing afterwards that he’s basically manages to end up holding his hand. There’s a second of awkwardness, but then Tim smiles, and stands closer, so he decides it’s not worth worrying about. “Come on, let’s get to class.”

_Tim tries to relax, force his body to fall limp as the feet approach. They’re so close now he can feel their shadows upon him, smell the sweat, the blood. He slows his breathing as best he can, praying to the very stars that they’ll fall for it, that they won’t...he feels a rib break under a boot, but works only on letting his body move like a corpse, gritting his teeth against all noise. Not for the first time he wishes he understood their language, hearing only nonsense above him. And then, after far too long a time, they move on._

 

None of them can really remember the beginning of the war now. It seems that their past year was always a part of it - designing prototypes of weaponry designed to work in situations they thought were merely hypothetical. But there is a day they will always remember - a day in which the whole institute is brought together, with Smithson at the fore.  
“Many of you are, by now, aware of exactly what we have been working on. For those of you who aren’t, it is enough to tell you that we are at war. All your theorising, your testing and your plans, has been for that. Above us, the moon is filled with explosions birthed by you, poisons perfected and weapons sketched, and built. But they are running low on scientists up there, and without our technology giving us the edge, this is a war we shall lose.” There is a long pause, and Tim feels Bertie’s hand take up it’s familiar place around his own. “It is for that reason, I am afraid, that all seniors are requested to volunteer.”  
“Requested?” asks a quiet, mousy girl to Tim’s left.  
“Yes. You don’t have to. But the staff who would be teaching you will be leaving in a week’s time, and you will not be able to remain at the Institute whilst the war is on.” Mumbling starts, and raised voices, and then Smithson lifts a hand. “The Institute will reopen once the war is concluded. You have three days to make your decisions. That is all.”  
  
“Bertie?”  
“Yes, Tim?”  
“We have to go, don’t we?” Bertie wants to say no, wants to protect this fragile, genius of a boy beside him, but knows the answer. Their projects, he is sure, are the best chance they have of winning. No-one has said so, but it’s hardly a secret when they get the most briefs, and the shortest improvement lists. “Bertie?”  
“We don’t have to do anything, Tim.” He steps closer, so their foreheads touch, and waits until Tim meets his eyes. “We can stay here, and wait for the war to be over.”  
“It won’t be over without us though.” Bertie sighs, and closes his eyes. “Will it?”  
“Maybe.”  
“I’m not scared,” Tim says, pulling back, his chin sticking out at what Bertie assumes Tim considers a defiant angle.  
“Of course.”  
“And we’ll...we’ll be fine, won’t we? We’re always fine.”  
“You know it.”  
“So, we’re settled?”  
“Yes.”  
“Okay.”  


_Cautiously, as silently as he can manage as his chest screams in pain, Tim crawls from under Bertie’s arm and takes a look around. Gone, he thinks, and a brief smile flashes over his bloodied face. Another day to live, another day to run. He stands up, and looks down the corridor. “Wait there,” he says, quietly, and begins to look for the rest of their group._

In the end, most of the seniors volunteer. They end up based together, working in one of the buried science labs guarded by thousands of soldiers. For a while, it’s just like home. Tim and Bertie find excuses to work with no-one but each other, and their lab gains a reputation as the best and brightest. Soldiers moonwide know of the Forge, kiss the name on the barrels of their guns for luck. Even Harry stays the same.  
  
“Doesn’t anyone else feel uncomfortable that we’re buried under a mile of rock with him?” it begins.  
“Don’t you all remember Maggie and James?” it continues.  
“I’m not staying locked in with a madman!” It crystallises, and sparks fly.  
  
Harry transfers to another base, and the rumours spread - rumours of what terrible threats Tim, slight of form but with eyes of steel, said he would do to Harry if caught alone. Others follow, chased by the fear that they’ll be next, that the Forge will open and belch flame onto those who guard it. At first, Tim doesn’t notice, and Bertie begs and pleads with all who will listen.  
  
“He will not hurt you!” he says, over and over and over, hiding the burns on his hands from the work in the lab.  
“Why do you run?” he asks, and the answer is always the same - he is mad! What mind would create such weapons, design such methods of pain?  
  
It takes months, but eventually, Tim notices. “They fear me,” he says, looking around the Forge. “I spend my days here designing things to protect them - to protect you, and they fear me! What more do they want?”  
“They don’t understand,” Bertie says, resting a hand in Tim’s short, dark curls. “How could they? But we are winning, Tim, and they’ll thank you one day.”  
“You don’t fear me, do you?”  
“Not at all.”  
“Why?” Bertie’s face turns strange, almost soft, for a moment, and then a familiar grin appears.  
“Because I could knock you out in one punch, that’s why.” Tim smiles, and turns back to the weapon bench.  
“Alright. Shall we?”

_As Tim walks down the corridor, it becomes very clear that no-one else survived. He spends time looking around, taking guns half-used, ammo half-spent - enough to get him and Bertie back to the base. He misses the days of the Forge, of it’s beautiful automatic defenses, but Bertie is good with a gun, and Tim is smart and quick. He pockets the badges of those who had fallen, reloads his pistol, and starts to make his way back._

 

It was inevitable, Bertie thinks, as they run hand in hand through dark passages and shrieking tunnels, that this would happen. With the guards growing less and less, and the Forge growing larger in fame, it had only been a matter of time before they had been found. “Did you do it?” he yells, tightening his grip on Tim’s hand.  
“Do what?”  
“Blow up the place!”  
“No!”  
“What?”  
“I’m not stupid enough to have designed a built in button, Bertie! It’s right here!” he pulls a metal box out of his pocket, and grins. “I’ll blow it when we’re clear.”  
“Just make sure you do!” They run, hearts thumping in time with their feet, each of them loaded up with as much as they could carry.  
“We’re clear!” Tim shouts, and there is a roar like the wrath of hell itself. Fire rains above them, the floor shakes and cracks, and they dive into a small passageway.  
“Cutting it close, love,” Bertie says, and Tim just stops and stares at him. “What? I...you felt that fire on you, right?”  
“I didn’t get your eyebrows this time.”  
“No, I suppose you didn’t.” They stay, sat close in the corridor, watching the world burn.  
  
“Tim?”  
“Yes, Bertie?”  
“You know I’m going to look after you out there, right?” Tim looks up, and for a second is captivated. Bertie’s face is golden in the flame, his hair sparking, his eyes gleaming with something familiar, yet unknown. He can only nod. “Just stick with me, and we’ll be alright.” Bertie leads forwards, and presses his lips to his forehead. “We’ll get out yet.”  
“Yes, Bertie.” He shuffles along, resting his head on Bertie’s chest, and sighs.  
“How long do you think we’ve got until the Forge finishes burning?”  
“After what you did to it? We’ll be lucky if it doesn’t last a week.”

_“Bertie!” Tim whispers, kneeling in front of the cave they’d hidden in. “We’re clear!” He waits, but Bertie acts at though he hasn’t heard him. “Bertie, didn’t you hear me? I...” he reaches out a hand, and rolls Bertie towards him. Except...except this is not Bertie, Tim thinks, as the head lolls towards him, as the glassy eyes meet his own. This is a model of Bertie - it’s skin waxy, it’s joints broken and wrong. This is...somewhere, Tim can hear screaming, and he begins to shake Bertie as frantically as his broken ribs will allow. “Come on! They’ll hear! Bertie, you have to get up...we have to...” His hand is sticky, and someone’s blood is pooling on his shoes, and the screams won’t stop. “Bertie!” he shouts, and then he is pulling him to his feet, positioning his arm around his shoulder - filling the space it was always meant to. The screaming won’t stop, and the lights are growing dim, but Tim knows, knows with more certainty than he’s ever felt in his life that they have to leave - that they have to escape..._

 

Somewhere, in the tunnels, between running and shooting, and just breathing, stars, the clean, clear air of breathing, lips meet and hands touch.

_Tim staggers into the camp, beaten and bloodied, and screams for help. Medics rush him, catch him as he falls, and tear their hands apart._

There are nights spent that bit too close, but no-one asks, no-one dares to comment on these boys - the strange, quiet genius and his protector.

 

_Eventually, once the screams are gone, and the lights return, Tim sits up. “Where’s Bertie?” he asks, and no-one speaks. “Where is he?” he shouts, his voice tearing as he does so._  
 _“Do you...do you mean the one you brought in with you?”_  
 _Of course I mean him!” Tim can feel his ribs aching as he yells, but he doesn’t care. “Where is he?”_  
 _A man, far older than any of the others around, steps forward, and catches Tim’s arms. “Bertie was dead when you brought him in.”_  
 _"No, no - I carried him, I carried him all the way here so you could, you could...”_  
 _"You brought me a corpse, son. Ain’t no genius alive could bring back a corpse.”_  
  
 _Days later, tales tell of a howl that arose, that echoed down tunnels and bounced off walls, and made it’s way almost to the room of the Kaiser. The superstitious called it an omen, the rational just an example of how sound waves work, and Tim? Tim knew it as madness._

 

There is little beyond this point to tell beyond what is known - that a soldier named Tim took it upon himself to slaughter the forces of the moon, calling all those who would join him to fight at his side. His notebook, carried all the way from earth, blossomed, and bore flowers of torment. New ideas, stranger, more deadly and with more risk to those who carried them, arose, and Tim was always the first to test them. He measured their success in blood, judged their efficiency in the mounds of corpses he caused.  
  
But the Tim who faced the Moon Kaiser that fateful day was not the Tim that Bertie loved, nor a Tim that Bertie knew. In fact, there was very little of that quiet, small-voiced boy that he would have remembered, and much more of the demon that some had rumoured lived inside. Unchecked, Tim’s madness grew, first fueled by vengeance, and then bloodlust.  
  
Still, some would say, the Tim that Bertie knew is not dead, only hidden. And sometimes, in the midst of the violence, deep in the void between stars, he surfaces, and dreams of the nights when the moon still shone down.


End file.
